Twenty seconds later, Tingle's voice said, "Jesus, I hope you're not calling to inform me Joan Townsend was blown up with C4."

Apparently his TV was on. I tried to think up a good zinger, but I wasn't really in the mood, nor would he be in another moment. I said, "It was. Though the FBI lab hasn't yet discovered its provenance."

I heard a quiet curse on the other end. Eventually, he concluded the obvious. "Tanner was right."

"Probably. About the source of the munitions anyway The rest remains speculative."

But it didn't need to stay speculative, and I quickly went over what Tingle and his command needed to accomplish. Basically, the plan was to screen Tanner's list of insider suspects, and the question was: Where were those five employees at that moment? Tingle heard me out and mumbled, "Outside shot."

"And do you have an inside shot to offer? You need to do this, General. You left toys in the sandbox, and it's time to get them back."

Tingle did not enjoy my metaphor, but got the point and assured me he could get an answer fairly quickly. I gave him my cell number.

Jennie glanced at me and said, "That's cunning. I never even considered that thread."

"Had we followed that thread a few hours ago, that would've been cunning."

"Stop looking backward."

I replied, "Look, about George, I'm sorry I gave him the perfect shot at your ass."

She did not contradict me, but she did say, "The only important thing at this moment is stopping Jason Barnes." After another moment she observed, "He's playing mind games with us, Sean. He's very good at it."

I knew exactly what she meant, but I wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter. "Explain that."

"He knows how we work and how the bureaucracy functions. These quick, unexpected hammer blows are meant to keep us off balance and at each other's throats. He's aware of our individual and institutional propensity to cover our own asses."

True enough. Still, it was strange, I thought, how shrewdly Barnes was playing his hand. I said to Jennie, "I really underestimated this clown. Nothing in his background suggests this level of deviousness."

She squeezed my arm. "With a father like his, he grew up hiding his feelings and disguising his strengths and weaknesses. This is a remarkably conflicted individual, religious yet murderous, a servant of the government who's now out to destroy that government, a man sworn to protect the same President he now vows to kill. Jason Barnes is a severely fractured personality. When he looks in the mirror, I doubt he recognizes himself."

Jennie called the ops center, informed the duty officer we were en route, and ordered an emergency all-hands call for a very important meeting.

I commented, "Can I get out of this blamefest-I mean, meeting?"

"No." She looked at her watch and punched the gas.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Once again, a nagging intuition was telling me something was very wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mark Townsend wasn't going to show up. Nor George Meany, who remained at the bomb scene, having generously volunteered to act as the on-site commander and public spokesman. Consequently, Meany's fingerprints would not be on whatever decision we made, a thought that I'm sure crossed his mind.

Anyway, before we entered the conference room, Jennie arranged for the Bureau to acquire both of our cell phone frequencies, essentially by calling each other, allowing some homing device to get our footprint.

Quick reaction teams were scrambling into position around the city, and five helicopters filled with sharpshooters were in the air. The idea was, the moment the bad guys called, the Bureau would get a fix on them, the quick reaction teams would swoop, and game over.

But the mood in the room, far from festive, was dispirited and edgy, though at least not panicky.

Everybody knew it was only a matter of time before we were stuffing shivs in one another's backs at the Senate inquest. It's a little hard to strike a chord of amity when everybody's busy covering their butt. There were a lot of forced smiles.

By dint of seniority, Phyllis assumed the chair at the end of the table and took responsibility for this nightmare. Roger Hammersly, Deputy Director of the FBI, had been duly notified he was the acting chief, but he was in Seattle, at least six hours from Washington and about two thousand miles from the blameline. Lucky him. Somebody was having a happy day

We were all standing around, chatting aimlessly as we waited for the last important personage to appear. Eventually the door opened, and Mrs. Nancy Hooper entered. Outside the door I saw a large gaggle of Secret Service agents sort of standing stiffly against the walls, that way they do.

Mrs. Hooper, I noted, had added a bulletproof vest to her wardrobe and a nasty scowl to her face.

Everybody moved to their seats, and Phyllis brought the meeting to order, saying, "A number of us in this room knew Joan Townsend. Nearly everybody here has now lost a friend. I'm sure we are all deeply affected. So I will remind you, this is a time for clear and unemotional thinking."

Everybody nodded. Great advice-if I recalled correctly, the exact words the captain of the Titanic advised his crew.

Phyllis then said, "I should begin with an update on my activities. Some of you may know that we've been tracking a hundred-million-dollar block of money flowing very quickly through the international banking system."

Aside from me, this was news to this crowd, who all craned forward and looked intensely interested. I also leaned forward, curious to hear how this turned out. Phyllis shrugged and then informed us, "Unfortunately, this lead has not panned out. The money belongs to another of those Russian oil barons trying to hide his money from the taxman. However, we'll keep looking, and who knows what might turn up."

This brought no sighs of relief.

Turning to Mr. Halderman, Phyllis said, "Gene is now going to offer us his department's assessment of the state of the nation."

So far, Mr. Halderman and his Department of Homeland Security had contributed nothing, and said nothing, so this was a nod to smart politics. You never know who you might need at the next crisis, only that there will be a next one, and it always pays to debruise hurt egos. One does not get to be an old hand in this business, like Phyllis, by overlooking the small things.

Gene gathered some papers in his hand and stood. I noticed he had switched out of his Armani suit and into some conservatively cut rags from Joe Bank. He at least appeared to be getting the cultural message, but the rest of us were baggy-eyed, wrinkled, smelly, and unkempt, whereas Gene looked well rested, freshly shaved, and somebody was wearing a really bad aftershave. The guy looked like he had just stepped out of the latest edition of Grooming for Success. Why did none of us take this guy seriously?

He coughed into his hand and collected his thoughts. He said, "The department has raised the national threat level to orange. This is a recognition of where we're at, tempered by the fact that the threat is internal. In our lingo, that means we still regard it as a domestic issue."

People were yawning.

"I know a lot of you have been too busy to watch the news," Gene continued. "The American people are stunned… shocked… almost convulsed. It's not quite at 9/11 intensity, but close…" Gene went on with his spiel, talking about the number of news hits and Internet mentions the murders had gleaned. It appeared that some channels were providing endless updates every fifteen minutes, so the public could keep score. I began to wonder what in the hell the Homeland Security Department did. When this was over, maybe I should apply for a job there. I pictured the rest of my career seated around TVs and computer screens, munching doughnuts and popcorn, logging mentions. I mean, the worst that could happen was a paper cut, or hot coffee spilling in my lap.